


By Candlelight

by megzseattle



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Developing Relationship, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 04:27:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19288120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megzseattle/pseuds/megzseattle
Summary: Aziraphale learns a little more about how to handle his own personal demon in the early days of their relationship.--Crowley went through the charade of patting down his pockets for a pen -- laughable, really, because if anything in the world is constant it is that Crowley’s pants are too tight and his pockets too small to ever, ever hold a writing utensil -- before reluctantly unfolding himself to stand up.





	By Candlelight

**Author's Note:**

> Come visit me on tumblr at https://www.tumblr.com/blog/ineffably-good

1.

Crowley was lounging on the couch in the bookshop’s back room sorting through several weeks of recent bookshop mail when he came across a survey he just couldn’t resist adding his snarky comments to on Aziraphale’s behalf. Surveys were one of his favorite things in the world - nothing like the low-grade rage created by constantly being _pestered_ for your thoughts on things you'd already purchased or experienced. He’d created the idea, originally, although he had to say that the humans had run with it far beyond the basic annoyance he’d initially envisioned. He went through the charade of patting down his pockets for a pen -- laughable, really, because if anything in the world is constant it is that Crowley’s pants are too tight and his pockets too small to ever, ever hold a writing utensil -- before reluctantly unfolding himself to stand up. 

“Angel!” he called out. “Got a pen?”

“Yes, yes, on the desk – “ Aziraphale shouted from somewhere in the stacks, where he was busy sorting and dusting and reorganizing according to his own incomprehensible schemes. 

“No, not your fancy schmancy fountain pens,” Crowley whinged. “Just a regular old pen. Felt tip. Ballpoint. Whatever.”

“Check the drawers and help yourself to anything, dear!” the angel called back pleasantly. 

Aziraphale’s desk had a profusion of drawers – big ones, little ones, even a hidden one on the side. Crowley sauntered over and started digging, amused by some of the objects he found rolling around in various drawers. Buttons, ribbons, a glove that had long ago lost its mate but was too precious to get rid of. A bottle or two of perfume, which he sniffed, wrinkling his nose at each in disgust. A centuries-old love letter he made a note to return to later. All kinds of odd brochures for retreats and spas, random bits of string, the very small skull of a bird, a large collection of candles, something that looked like it might be the manual for a – 

Crowley’s brain made a record scratch noise as he went back a drawer. 

_Candles._

.  
2.

_Three weeks prior_

It took some time after the No-pocalypse for Crowley to share what had happened in the bookstore the night Aziraphale discorporated. In fact it might never have come up at all, if the angel hadn’t one night pulled out a bottle of superb Chateau Cheval Blanc, rumored to be unattainable, and on a whim, conjured up a few candles around the bookshop to celebrate the find. 

He poured the first glass, stopping to admire the pale gold edge shining around the dark wine in the candle-light, and then handed it to Crowley only to find the demon wide eyed and sweating. 

Aziraphale put the glass down and crouched in front of Crowley, taking his hands in his. “Crowley!! Love! What’s wrong!”

Crowley appeared to be doing his best to grind his teeth into powder. He parted his lips enough to just rasp out a few words. 

“Candles. Out.” 

The angel did, and quickly, and then he sat next to his partner and, for lack of anything better to do, pulled him in to rest on his shoulder. The demon took deep gulping breaths; after a few minutes his breathing slowed, and looking embarrassed, he leapt to his feet and started pacing the room. 

“Crowley, what was that all about?” Aziraphale asked gently. 

“Nothing, it’s nothing,” the demon said sharply. “Just leave it.”

“I most certainly will not,” Aziraphale said primly. “Something was wrong and I won’t let it rest until you tell me.”

Crowley glared at him and turned his back. “It’s just – “ he muttered. “Your shop. When it burned. It was your bloody candles, started the whole thing. When I came in here to look for you – some of them were still there, in the bloody circle you cast.” He took a breath. “Everything was destroyed. Everything! It was like hell, but infinitely worse.” 

He whirled around and pointed a finger at Aziraphale, his eyes dark. “I thought you were dead. Don’t ever, ever do that to me again or I will smite you myself.”

Aziraphale watched him, stunned. “So when you – “ he stopped to clear his throat. “So when you said you lost your best friend…”

Crowley flopped exaggeratedly down onto the sofa. “Yes of course it was you, you ridiculous ball of feathers," he growled. "Who else would I possibly have been talking about? I spend literally all of my time with you. We're _dating_ , for heaven's sake.”

He made a sour face at having accidentally uttered that word.

Aziraphale tried to swallow the sudden smile and intense warmth that was coursing through him. “Of course, of course,” he said in a conciliatory tone. “I’m sorry, that sounds like it was dreadful for you. If I’d been able to let you know I was leaving, of course I would have.”

Crowley put his head in his hands. “I know that, angel.” 

Aziraphale sat down next to him. “Can I do anything to help?”

“No,” Crowley said. “Just… just get rid of the candles, okay? This whole place is a bloody tinderbox. It’s not worth the risk.”

Aziraphale frowned. “I _like_ candles. And it’s not like _I_ ever actually caught anything on fire with one of them. It was that foolish witch hunter.”

“I don’t care who it was, angel. No more candles. Promise me.” 

Crowley pinned him with a look that would brook no compromise. 

“I promise,” the angel finally said, vaguely uncomfortable. He did mean to comply, of course. But he might just _delay_ a little bit first. 

.  
3.

Crowley stared at the contents of the drawer, shocked, for another moment or two, then sat down on top of the desk in what could only be described as an overtly aggressive manner. 

“Aziraphale!” he shouted. “Get out here!”

“Okay, okay, I’m coming, just a moment…” Aziraphale appeared looking slightly disheveled, dust in his hair and smudged under his left eye and his curls out of place. He tutted at Crowley. “What’s the matter, couldn’t find a pen you liked? I’m sure I must have something – “

He caught sight of the open drawer and his mouth, for a moment, formed a perfect “O” of surprise. 

“Oh dear,” he muttered weakly, looking between the offending drawer and Crowley, who he noted was looking quite menacing in an utterly handsome way. 

The demon gave him a black look. “Care to explain?” 

Aziraphale tried to school his face into the picture of perfect innocence. “Why, I suppose I just forgot those were in there,” he said cheerfully, not quite meeting Crowley’s gaze head on. “Who would have thought?” 

Crowley raised an eyebrow and gave him the third most unimpressed look in the history of unimpressed looks. 

Aziraphale threw up his hands in a placating gesture. “All right, all right!” he said, starting to feel just a bit of a sweat break out under his brow. “The truth is – the truth is – “ 

“Yessss?” 

When Crowley began to let the occasional sibilant hiss slip through, Aziraphale noted, it was definitely not a good sign. 

“Well it’s – it’s just -- they’re from _Paris_!” he exclaimed, wringing his hands. “They’re made from the purest beeswax in the world! They’re hardly candles, they’re more like little works of art.”

“Then I suggest you paint a picture of them,” Crowley said dryly.

“Thousands and thousands of bees gave their _lives_ to make those candles,” Aziraphale cried, clearly anguished. “I didn’t want to just throw them away!” 

Crowley nudged an empty box that was suddenly and miraculously laying on the floor near his foot over towards Aziraphale, who pouted unhappily. 

“My dear, I know what we said but I assure you I had no plans to _ever_ use them…”

“They’re going, Aziraphale. You promised, remember?” 

Aziraphale did remember, of course, and he felt badly enough about the broken promise to do as he was bid. He tried to not look too sad as he lovingly stacked all 24 of the tapers in the box provided, which he then deposited on the floor next to the desk. 

Crowley observed him for a moment. The angel was fidgeting with a button on his waist coat and wasn’t quite meeting his eye. It was almost as if he had something else to feel guilty about. 

“That all of them?” he asked, voice deceptively conversational. 

Aziraphale’s face flushed and he mumbled under his breath. 

“What’s that?” 

Aziraphale, knowing he was well and truly defeated, looked up with sincere remorse in his eyes. “There are more in the back. I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m --”

Crowley stalked over and took him by both lapels, his face up close in the flustered angel’s personal space, and shook him gently but with great seriousness. “You need to make a decissssion about just how pisssssed off you want me to be, here, angel.” 

“Not at all, please!” Aziraphale chirped nervously. 

Crowley gave him one more shake and let go. “You are going to miracle every single candle in this bookshop into that box. Right. Now.” 

Aziraphale shut his eyes and concentrated for a moment, and there was a surprisingly loud clatter in the box behind them. They both spun around, and as Crowley stared incredulously at the box, the angel mainly watched Crowley’s eyebrows rise so high they almost disappeared into his hairline. 

The box was literally overflowing with candles. Big ones, little ones, half burned ones, mostly cream colored but a few in nice shades of pink or yellow. Dozens of candles. Possibly hundreds. 

“Oh my,” Aziraphale said nervously, “there are quite a few more than I was aware of! You know me and storage, my dear! I don’t know what’s in half the boxes around here.”

Crowley spared him a quick glare as he stalked over to squat down beside the box, where he gestured tightly and said something under his breath. When he stood back up, the box was full nearly to the top of a grayish, brownish, unappetizing sludge of melted wax and dust and dirt. 

“Oh!” Aziraphale gasped, hand over his heart. “Oh, my dear. That was so, so… “ 

He was about to say ‘wasteful’ when he caught the look on Crowley’s face, just _daring_ him to go on. 

Aziraphale really didn’t want a fight, not now. And after all, he _had_ promised to get rid of all the candles. Truly, he was lucky that Crowley didn’t still have him by the edges of his waistcoat. So the angel dropped his hand back to his side quickly and gave Crowley a weak smile.

It was not returned. 

“I’m sorry, my dear,” he said quietly. He suddenly felt rather foolish, all things considered. “I’m completely in the wrong, I know. It’s just... they were so lovely.” 

Crowley grunted in disgust and finally grabbed the felt tip pen he had been looking for originally, then threw himself at the couch and began silently scribbling on Aziraphale’s postal survey. From the looks of things, he was using a lot of unfortunate language. Aziraphale made a mental note to pull it out of the outgoing mail later before it could go out to its intended recipient. 

It was clearly time for a long, angry sulk. Crowley was the long-undisputed champion of long angry sulks. He had been perfecting them for centuries.

All things expected, Aziraphale thought, that wasn’t too bad of an outcome. If Crowley had truly been furious, he’d have stormed out the front door, possibly disappeared for a day or two. A month or two ago, he would certainly have done so. But as their relationship deepened, they were learning to navigate their way through these shoals without pretending they were leaving each other. It was new. It felt a little bit frightening, but mostly it felt divine. 

Instead of leaving, Aziraphale thought, his demon would grunt and grumble and infect their surroundings with his deservedly dark mood for a few hours, but he would stay. When it looked like the atmosphere was lightening a little, Aziraphale would bring him some tea and lay his hands on the demon's shoulders and rub little circles in those tight muscles in the way he knew Crowley liked until the demon loosened up enough to acknowledge him. There’d be a little ranting and some finger wagging and a few apologies that Aziraphale knew he needed to offer – he’d been horribly thoughtless, really – and then they could get on with the delightful process of making up in whatever way seemed best at the time. 

“I’ll just, er, take care of this, then, shall I?” he said, carefully lifting the large box of sludge and heading out the front door, trying hard not to spill any on the floor. He wasn’t quite sure what to do with it, but miracling it away just seemed wrong, somehow. 

Aziraphale was learning, he thought, how to manage his demon. It wasn’t truly so difficult.


End file.
